


Afterword

by catwing



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 10:27:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2021553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catwing/pseuds/catwing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You see her standing a few feet in front of you, the orange and red of her clothing brilliant again the blue white of the storm, waiting just like you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Afterword

When you finally meet in a dream bubble, you've been waiting for a very long time. You’re sitting in snowdrifts, disoriented and freezing to the bone, and when you look up you see her standing a few feet in front of you, the orange and red of her clothing brilliant again the blue white of the storm, waiting just like you.

You stand and move to stand in front of her and she flashes her teeth at you. Vriska Serket’s grin is a challenge, it always has been. Her eyes match the snow, milky and opaque with no irises, but you know her gaze is fixed on you.

“Pyrope,” she says, her grin widening. You can hear the bravado in her voice. It sounds thin and fragile. It makes you want to cry.

“Vriska,” you say, and for once you don’t grin back at her.

“Tell me you’re not here to apologize,” she drawls, tossing her hair slightly. “You’ll embarrass us both.”

“No,” you say, and your words sound unreal to your own ears. Dreambubbles have always felt this way to you. A little distant even when you’re in them. Like there’s a veil between you and your surroundings, like you’re not quite seeing everything that’s there. Like you don’t really belong.

“I’m not sorry,” you continue. “Not for killing you.”

You take a step forward so that you’re very close and she looks at you almost hesitantly. She looks young, looks a very petulant six, looks like the ghost of a little girl. You think of Vriska at four, tossing her hair and tugging on your shirt as she tells you to hurry. You imagine Vriska at eight sweeps, beaming and spitting blood as she turns to face an opponent, turns to win. You think of her at six. Bratty and brilliant, unbearable and alight.

You reach up and push a lock of her hair behind one ear. Your hand shakes a little.

“I am sorry, though,” you say, quietly, “that you are dead.”

She stares at you for a moment, then seems to remember herself. You see her mustering her bravado, arranging her face into a sneer, and you hate and love her for it. When she draws breath to laugh or to spit a retort back at you, you lean forward, a little hesitant and unsure yourself. She blinks at you, her smile fading, and you gently press a kiss to the side of her face. You can’t feel the contact through the cold.

When you draw back she’s staring at you again, mouth slightly open. You force a small smile, knowing its a sad shadow of the grin she’s used to, and before you can draw breath you’re opening your eyes to the dingy, oppressive shadows of the meteor.

You never see Vriska, looking utterly dazed, reach up to gingerly touch her cheek.


End file.
